rug by her bedroom fire, and laid his head down
caressingly upon her knees.

Lady Kynaston passed her hand fondly over the short dark hair. "How well
you know my face, Maurice! Yes, something has worried me all day--it is a
letter from your brother."

Maurice looked up laughingly. "What, is old John in trouble? That would
be something new. Has he taken a leaf out of my book, mother, and dropped
his money at Newmarket, too?"

"No, you naughty boy? John has got more sense. No!" with a sigh--"I wish
it were only money; I fear it is a worse trouble than that."

"My dear mother, you alarm me," cried Maurice, looking up in mock dismay;
"why, whatever has he been and gone and done?"

"Oh, Maurice, it is nothing to laugh at--it is some woman--a girl he has
met down at Kynaston; some nobody--a clergyman's daughter, or sister, or
something--whom he says he is going to marry!" Lady Kynaston looked the
picture of distress and dismay.

Maurice laughed softly. "Well, well, mother; there is nothing very
dreadful after all--I am sure I wish him joy."

"My boy," she said, below her breath, "I had so hoped, so trusted he
would never marry--it seemed so unlikely--he seemed so completely happy
in his bachelor's life; and I had hoped that you--that you----"

"Yes, yes, mother dear, I know," he said, quickly, and twisted himself
round till he got her hand between his, kissing it as he spoke; "but I--I
never thought of that--dear old John, he has been the best of brothers to
me; and, mother dear, I know it is all your love to me; but you and I,
dear, we will not grudge him his happiness, will we?"

He knew so well her weakness--how that she had loved him at the expense
of the other son, who was not so dear to her; he loved her for it, and
yet he did not at his heart think it right.

Lady Kynaston wiped a few tears away. "You are always right, my boy,
always, and I am a foolish old woman. But oh, Maurice, that is only half
the trouble! Who is this woman whom he has chosen? Some country girl,
ignorant of the ways of the world, unformed and awkward--not fitted to be
his wife!"

"Does he say so?" laughed Maurice.

"No, no, of course not. Stay, where is his letter? Oh, there, on the
dressing-table; give it me, my dear. No, this is what he says: 'Miss
Nevill seems to me in every way to fulfil my ideal of a good and perfect
woman, and, if she will consent to marry me, I intend to make her my
wife.'"

"Well, a good and perfect woman